Applause (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 2) Read online

  ‘We’d better get to our posts,’ said Sister-Grimm-Timmins, leading the way to the door.

  ‘Yes,’ Sister-Grimm-Smith said, hard on the heels of Sister-Grimm-Timmins. ‘We’d better get to our posts.’

  ‘Goodbye Margaret,’ they said in unison, and they shuffled out.

  Margaret stood open-mouthed. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it at the flicks. She put on her tabard and looked in the mirror. Her hair was fine. She’d recently had a perm, so the curls were still a bit on the tight side. She took out the Kirby grip at the front, forced the comb through the deep wave that, without the grip, would fall into her eyes, and replaced it. She straightened her skirt and checked her stockings for wrinkles before following the Sisters Grimm down the corridor into the auditorium.

  ‘Morning, Bert.’ Margaret’s cheeks flushed pink with pride. ‘I’ve been offered the position of wardrobe assistant. I’m here to see Mrs Horton.’

  ‘She’s expecting you, Miss. I’ll take you up.’

  Margaret waited while the stage doorman found a pen and paper. He wrote a note saying, BACK IN TEN MINUTES and pinned it on the door of his small office. ‘Right! Follow me.’

  Margaret had met the wardrobe mistress several times before with Miss Lesley and Bert, but she had never been to the wardrobe department. She followed the elderly stage doorman up three flights of winding stone stairs. Despite being almost as round as he was tall, Bert was surprisingly quick on his feet. When they arrived on the top floor he was hardly out of puff. Margaret, young and fit, held onto the banister and caught her breath.

  Mrs Horton was waiting for them with a pot of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. She placed both on a small table that was surrounded by an assortment of chairs. ‘Elevenses are early today, Bert.’

  ‘Right you are, Mrs Horton.’ Bert lowered his bulk into a large comfortable-looking chair. Margaret waited. She looked around. Dozens of costumes hung on metal clothes racks. In the middle of the room was an oval table. On the far side was a sewing machine and on the nearside a sewing box with a selection of yellow cottons and a canary-yellow blouse. She looked up and gasped. Hanging from a pipe above the ironing board were some of the most beautiful dresses she had ever seen. Red with black frills, navy with emerald green edging, and chocolate-brown with a cream see-through overdress. She brought her focus back to reality. In front of the ironing board a huge basket overflowed with washing. She looked away.

  ‘Take a seat, Margaret. Milk?’

  ‘Yes please, but no sugar. I’m watching my weight.’

  Mrs Horton handed Margaret a cup of tea and picked up the biscuits. ‘You won’t want one of these then?’

  Margaret could have kicked herself. She’d spoken before thinking. She had a habit of doing that and nearly always regretted it. ‘Well, Peek Frean’s are my favourites.’ She loved custard creams and the round ones with jam in the middle. ‘Perhaps one won’t hurt,’ she said, taking a custard cream and wishing she had the nerve to take a jam one too.

  When they had finished their tea, Bert thanked Mrs Horton and returned to the stage door. Mrs Horton took Margaret to the sewing room and introduced her to the seamstresses who made the costumes for the shows.

  ‘Ladies, this is Margaret.’ Margaret opened her mouth to say hello, but Mrs Horton didn’t give her time to speak. ‘Margaret is going to help us with the costumes for the new show. This is Sylvie,’ Mrs Horton said, smiling at a fair-haired girl who looked half-starved sitting behind a big sewing machine at the back of the room. ‘Sylvie’s a machinist.’

  Margaret walked over to Sylvie and shook her hand. Sylvie smiled shyly from under a thick fringe and whispered, ‘‘Ello.’

  ‘And this is Violet, our cutter. Violet’s been here longer than any of us. She’s made costumes for some of the West End’s most famous actors and actresses.’

  ‘Welcome to the inner sanctum, Margaret,’ Violet said, in a friendly but brisk and authoritative voice.

  ‘This is Ivy. Ivy’s a machinist and a cutter.’

  Ivy gave Margaret a motherly smile. ‘Jack-of-all-trades,’ she said, taking Margaret’s hand and holding it in both of hers. ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Hello, I’m --’

  ‘And this is where you’ll be working.’ The wardrobe mistress pointed to a chair and a small kidney-shaped table that was cluttered with boxes of beads, sequins, bits of fur and all sorts of other paraphernalia. Margaret didn’t have time to look at it properly before Mrs Horton was speaking again. ‘Violet’s in charge of the day-to-day running of the sewing room. She’ll give you your work and when you’ve done it, she’ll check it.’ Margaret nodded and smiled at Violet. ‘I also need help with the maintenance of the costumes, but we’ll discuss that later. I’ll leave you in Violet’s capable hands for the time being.’ Before Margaret could thank her, Mrs Horton had left the room.

  The small table where she would be working was next to an open door. As she passed she peeped in. It was a big room with connecting doors to Mrs Horton’s wardrobe and the costume room. It had been painted white from floor to ceiling – and was empty except for a long trestle table in the middle with a low hanging light above it and a dozen mannequins along the back wall.

  ‘That’s the white room,’ Violet said. ‘It’s where the costumes are cut out, and then when they’re made, the artists have their fittings. Mrs Goldman, the boss’s wife, is the designer. She draws the costumes on a big white pad in her studio, dressing room seven, and then she comes and discusses which fabric would be best for which costume with Mrs Horton and me.’

  ‘Then she goes up to Berwick Street and orders it,’ Ivy said.

  ‘And that’s when the fun starts,’ Sylvie added.

  ‘Yes,’ Violet said. ‘It’s fun because the girls and me go to Berwick Street a few days later and collect it. Nine out of ten times the fabric isn’t ready, so we go across to Woollies for half an hour.’

  ‘And ‘ave a cup of tea and a fancy out of Mrs Orton’s petty cash,’ Sylvie said, giggling.

  ‘What if the material is ready when you get there?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘It never is,’ Ivy said, winking.

  ‘And you cut the dresses out in there too, do you?’

  ‘Not before I’ve made a pattern out of special heavy tissue paper. Only then, if Mrs Goldman approves it, do I begin cutting.’

  ‘Can we try the costumes on?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Not on your life!’ Violet looked aghast. ‘Only the artists wear the costumes. Mrs Horton takes their measurements, I cut the pattern out and tack it together, and then the artists come in for the first fitting. If it doesn’t fit properly at that stage, we can alter it. Once it’s been machine stitched it’s more difficult, especially to let out.’

  ‘That’s what the horsehair dummies and the mannequins are for,’ Ivy said. ‘They’re the models while we’re making the costumes. When they’re made the artists come in for a final fitting.’

  ‘Sometimes it takes four or five final fittings before the dress is perfect,’ Ivy said.

  Margaret’s first week was spent sewing sequins onto the bodices and hems of evening gowns – gold on gold, red on red, black on black, and so on. Black on black was murder. It was difficult to see the sequins against the shiny fabric, but easy to stick the needle in your finger, which she did constantly. Her next job was to cover tiny buttons in fabric to decorate cuffs, kick-pleats and shoes. She wasn’t sure which job was the most awkward. She liked working with silk best, because the needle went through it easily. But when fabric like taffeta was folded over, sometimes twice, it was a devil to get a needle through.

  Margaret’s job as an usherette was long hours and her second job in wardrobe was hard work. Her back ached from bending over the small work table and her eyes stung from straining to thread needles and sew tiny beads and buttons. She was tired, but she didn’t complain. She didn’t care how hard she worked, or for how long, because everything she did in the theatre took her nea
rer to achieving her ambition.

  ‘The first costume fitting,’ Mrs Horton announced, ‘is Miss Jewel. She’ll be here at three this afternoon.’

  Nancy Jewel’s costume was the most elegant. It was white silk. The skirt was calf length and cut on the cross. Designed to flatter Nancy Jewel’s already perfect figure, it fitted snugly and moved with a jazzy swing when she twirled. The bodice of the dress was decorated with tiny seed pearls and the matching coat had a white fur trim. Margaret wriggled her nose. The fur made her sneeze. Because it was white, it had taken her twice as long to decorate. She had to keep stopping to wash her hands so she didn’t make the fabric grubby.

  ‘Is the costume ready, Violet?’

  ‘Yes,’ Violet said, looking at Ivy and Sylvie, who were both nodding.

  ‘Right! Let’s put everything away so we’re ready when Miss Jewel gets here.’

  Everyone dashed about, folding fabric and putting scissors, pins and reels of cotton into tins, drawers and cupboards. Margaret tidied her work station, making sure each differently coloured sequin, bead and button went into the correct box. By the time she’d finished it was almost three.

  ‘Margaret!’ Mrs Horton called.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and then she froze. Nancy Jewel was standing in the doorway. Margaret caught her breath. The Albert’s leading lady was as beautiful off stage as she was on. She was slender and elegant, her hair was a rich silky-brown, her skin flawless and her eyes twinkled when she smiled, as she was doing now. ‘Oh!’ Margaret smiled at her shyly.

  ‘Take Miss Jewel’s coat.’

  ‘What? Oh yes. Sorry,’ Margaret said, running over to Nancy Jewel, grabbing a coat-hanger on the way, before helping her out of her outdoor coat. As Nancy undressed Margaret hung up her coat, and then returned for her other clothes.

  Of all the costumes the white one had caused Margaret the most headaches. Sewing hundreds of tiny seed pearls onto a white dress was slow and painstaking. But the look of amazement on Nancy Jewel’s face when she saw it hanging in the white room erased the memory of sore fingers and tired eyes.

  ‘Hang up Miss Jewel’s suit, Margaret,’ Mrs Horton said, handing her a fashionable dove-grey two-piece. And Sylvie, please ask Mrs Goldman to come in?’

  Sylvie scuttled off to get Natalie Goldman who, as the designer, had the last say on the costumes, while Ivy and Violet took Nancy’s dress off her dummy and helped her into it.

  Mrs Horton circled Nancy, examining first the seams, and then every other part of the costume from the neckline to the hem. Finally she nodded her approval and stepped away to allow Natalie Goldman to take a closer look. Natalie lifted her hands to Nancy’s shoulders. She smoothed the fabric and tugged at it gently, as if she was levelling the shoulder pads.

  ‘Are you happy with it, Nancy? Happy with how it feels and looks?’ Natalie Goldman asked, running her hands along the fastening at the back.

  ‘Yes, very happy. It feels wonderful and looks amazing.’

  ‘Ladies? Everything to your satisfaction?’

  Wardrobe mistress and cutter nodded.

  Margaret watched Nancy as she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She lifted her hands to her lips, palms together, and smiled a wide natural smile. Then she turned gracefully. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at each of them in turn.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to make costumes for you, Miss Jewel.’ Turning towards the rest of the wardrobe staff, Mrs Horton sighed with relief. Quickly recovering, she said, ‘If you’d like to help Miss Jewel out of her costume, Violet? And Margaret, please fetch Miss Jewel’s own clothes.’

  ‘Thank you, ladies,’ Nancy Jewel said, once she had been helped out of her show costume and into her suit.

  ‘See you tomorrow for Katarina’s fitting,’ Natalie Goldman called from the doorway. The two women left together. When they were out of earshot, Mrs Horton clapped her hands. ‘Well done everyone. Go and get yourselves a cup of tea. Oh, and Miss Jewel brought in a chocolate cake. It’s in a tin on the table.’

  The girls left the white room chatting and laughing. ‘Save me a slice,’ Mrs Horton shouted. ‘Katarina Kaplinski’s coming in tomorrow. Doubt we’ll be celebrating when she’s gone.’

  ‘Kat for short and Cat by nature,’ Violet said to Margaret as they drank tea and ate cake.

  ‘She’s the number two,’ Ivy said. ‘Lead dancer of the chorus and she thinks she’s it!’

  ‘They say she was a Russian ballet dancer before the war. She acts like royalty. She ain’t arf jumped up,’ Sylvie said. ‘She treats everyone as works backstage like her servants.’

  ‘Especially the wardrobe department,’ Ivy added.

  Margaret couldn’t wait to meet the cat of the company. Nor could she wait to get home and tell Bill all about Nancy Jewel who, she decided, was the good fairy of the Prince Albert Theatre, where Katarina Kaplinski was the wicked witch.

  ‘She’s foreign, well she would be with a name like Kaplinski.’ Margaret jumped into bed beside her husband and wriggled her way into his arms. ‘Russian, Sylvie said. I bet she wears expensive clothes. She could be royalty. A Russian princess. She might be a spy.’ Still contemplating the various scenarios, Margaret snuggled up to Bill, who had tried to stay awake during the saga of Katarina Kaplinski – royalty, or spy. However, after a long day biking from one government office to another – and an even longer night as a volunteer ambulance driver – he was asleep the instant his head touched the pillow.

  Katarina Kaplinski’s entrance the following day did not disappoint. She swept into the white room exactly as Margaret imagined she would, and everyone jumped. Everyone, that is, except Mrs Horton. The wardrobe mistress was neither in fear nor in awe of Miss Kaplinski – and didn’t acknowledge her high and mighty attitude.

  Margaret gasped; she couldn’t help herself. Kat was everything she had hoped she would be. She had an oval face with creamy skin and high cheekbones. Her eyes were blue-grey, their paleness emphasised by black mascara on long lashes, and her eyebrows were sculpted to a dramatic V. She looked like a model. She was tall and sophisticated and elegant, though some of her height had to be credited to the heels on her shoes, which looked as if they were five inches. The classic design of her black tailored costume, with its pencil skirt and buttoned kick-pleat at the back, showed off her long legs to perfection. The cut of her jacket accentuated the smallness of her waist, while drawing attention to the curve of her hips and the fullness of her bust. The finishing touches to the stylish ensemble were a bright red silk scarf round her slender neck, and a black felt trilby that she wore tilted over her left eye. Katarina Kaplinski looked magnificent.

  Margaret stood open-mouthed, wondering what an austere young woman who was possibly a spy would wear under her suit. She imagined her in a scarlet blouse with matching underwear, or perhaps steel grey, the year’s most fashionable colour. To her surprise, and disappointment, Kat wore white. A white silk blouse, white underskirt trimmed with narrow white lace and beneath that a plain white brassiere and camiknickers. If it hadn’t been for her smooth, dark brown hair tied back in a tight ballerina-bun, and ruby-red lips, Katarina Kaplinski would have looked quite ordinary.

  While Ivy helped Kat out of her own clothes Violet lifted her new red and black costume from the rail and Sylvie stood by with scissors and pins. Mrs Horton nodded to Margaret, which was her cue to hang up Kat’s clothes. By the time she returned Kat was in costume and putting it through its paces. Arms in the air, clicking her fingers in time with her feet, which were pounding the floor boards so quickly they were a blur, Kat danced the Flamenco. Suddenly she gave a small jump, brought her feet together, whipped her arms down by her side and flicked her head forward in a tilt.

  Margaret held her breath and when Kat looked up, she clapped wildly.

  Mrs Horton shot her a sideways look. But Margaret couldn’t help herself. ‘Wonderful,’ she shouted, ‘the dress, the dance--’

  ‘Thank you, Margaret!’ Mrs Horton glared at her. Margaret
knew it wasn’t her place to comment and looked at the floor. Sylvie stifled a giggle. But the others, seeing the seams in the side of Kat’s dress, which had weakened from her vigorous dancing, had more important things on their minds.

  ‘I don’t understand it. The costume appears to be a little tighter,’ Violet said, diplomatically. ‘Is it possible that you’ve put on a pound or two, Miss K--?’

  ‘No, it is not!’ Kat spat. ‘How dare you accuse me of putting on weight? You obviously made a mistake when you measured me. Or you cut it out wrongly. Where are my measurements?’ Kat threw her head back haughtily and stood as tall as she could. Her grey eyes hardened with anger while Mrs Horton slowly and methodically leafed through the pages of the measurements book.

  ‘Miss Kaplinski, your measurements were taken correctly and they were written down correctly,’ she said at last. No one, not even Kat, dare suggest Mrs Horton had made a mistake. ‘The measurements were then transferred to the pattern, which was cut correctly. Neither myself nor Violet has made a mistake.’

  ‘Never mind, dear, the seams can be let out a touch,’ Violet said. ‘Leave it to me. Come in the day after tomorrow, same time, and I’ll have it ready for you. Good as new, it’ll be.’

  Kat didn’t look pleased, but she nodded.

  Margaret brought Kat’s clothes while Ivy and Violet helped her out of her costume. As Ivy was fastening the buttons at the back of her own skirt, Kat turned this way and that, looking at herself in the long mirror. Margaret could see Ivy getting more and more frustrated. Finally, when she had fastened the last button, Ivy stepped back and Violet helped Kat on with her jacket.

  Before she left Kat turned and smiled – not at the women who had helped her, but at her reflection in the mirror. Kat was a madam, all right!

  The following morning Goldie Trick, whose real name was Doreen, was due for a costume fitting. She was late.

  Sylvie nudged Margaret. ‘She brings us treats,’ she whispered, as they waited. ‘Chocolates for the sewing room and biscuits for Mrs Horton. Thank you presents, she says, for the work we do. No one knows where she gets ‘em from, with everything being rationed, but they say her young man’s a gangster, so I expect he gets ‘em on the black market. Most of the girls look down their noses at ‘im, but they never refuse to eat the chocolates he buys with ‘is ill-gotten gains – as Ivy says.’ Sylvie giggled.